


whoever treasures freedom

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Threesome in the North - Continuing Adventures [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Such a polite boy, so gentle and hesitant. It only makes her want to ruin him more, only makes the ideas in her head all the more obscene. She wants to make him grab her and paw at her, wants to make him lose that part of himself that would keep vows to a false ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whoever treasures freedom

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of the Threesome in the North, perhaps? Jon and Val in a tent.

“Val, no.” The words are a moan of torment, a plea. A lie.

He quivers beneath her, his hands fisted in the furs at his sides, the tendons in his neck straining as he cranes his head to look at her. Gods, but he’s pretty. And he feels even better under her hand, hot and smooth and throbbing just from the little bit of touching they’ve done, her tongue at his neck and his hand at her teats, the wine an excuse but not a reason. That he could resist her even as aroused as he is – and as naked as she now is, her clothes easily and speedily discarded only a moment ago – adds an interesting new wrinkle to Jon Snow, one that Val is surprised to find herself eager to explore.

“No?” she asks, one brow arched. Then she rubs her palm down his cock lightly, watching the muscles of his stomach jump in response. “This feels like yes.”

“We can’t.” His voice is weak, the words a whisper of breath.

“Why? You seem…” She pauses as she circles him with her hand, his breeches straining at her knuckles as she curls her fingers around him. “Healthy.”

“If health is measure by how much I want to fuck you, then I’ll live to be a thousand,” he admits with a choked laugh, an admission that seems to thrill him as much as it pains him. “But my vows-”

“Were rendered null when your sworn brothers attempted to kill you,” she says. It seems nothing less than obvious to Val, entirely sensible. She does not believe in vows in the first place – particularly vows that rob you of your right to pleasure – but she especially does not believe in vows held to those who would murder you. It’s difficult for her to imagine anyone who would believe in such a thing. Yet here is Jon, desperate and panting against her, frantic for her touch, but resisting, all for the sake of some honorable bosh about vows and duties. It would be tiresome if it weren’t so intriguing.

“Val,” he says, softening the edges of her name with his ardor, his helpless desire for her. She shivers. She can’t help it. Val is strong in many ways, but Jon Snow and his tender, respectful lust are her undoing.

“Do your vows prohibit this?” she asks, as she moves her hand about him, thumbing at the tip until his head falls back and he’s gasping, his bare chest rising in quaking waves.

“Not in so many words,” he rasps, “but-”

His voice dissolves into a tangle of sounds when she repeats the motion again, and then once more, pairing it with the hot pressure of her mouth at his throat. Oh, how he struggles not to want her, this dear boy, how he fights his need. It should be shameful how that only makes her want him more, want to break his control into powder. But Val doesn’t believe in shame. She shifts lower on his furs, straddling his knees and working him free of his breeches. He nearly explodes off the pallet at the delicate swipe of her tongue, her name on his lips a curse and a prayer at once.

“And this,” she says. “Any words about this?”

“Val.”

“Oh, the vows mention me? Then it’s even less wrong.” She laughs in delight, and before he can protest again, she licks a wide stripe up from base to tip, then closes her lips about him to suck experimentally, wondering if he’ll be as responsive as she thought he might be when this had first occurred to her moons ago, at the start of their trek south from the Wall as a pair of refugees with only each other in the world. 

Such satisfaction when he proves even more responsive than she’d dreamed. 

Val closes her eyes, charmed by the strength of his reaction, by the way his fists stay clenched in the furs rather than moving to the back of her head to urge her on. Such a polite boy, so gentle and hesitant. It only makes her want to ruin him more, only makes the ideas in her head all the more obscene. She wants to make him grab her and paw at her, wants to make him lose that part of himself that would keep vows to a false ideal.

He does grab at her when he peaks, but only to hold her away, pulling her up to his kiss as he spills hot against her belly. He does not seem to care about the taste of himself on her lips. It makes her want to kiss him harder, more deeply, so that he tastes himself in every bit of her mouth the way she does. She straddles him again, rubbing her cunt along his softening cock. She wants to see how long it takes him. A young buck like Jon, perhaps he’ll surprise her. But Jon has other ideas.

She cries out in surprise when he hooks his elbows under her thighs and hauls her up his chest, the drag of his chest beneath her wet cunt wringing a different sort of cry from her. Before she can ask what he’s about, he grips her arse with both hands and lifts her to his mouth, giving her only a moment to adjust before licking over her in a wide stripe, as she’d done before to him, and then burying his mouth between her thighs with a moan so appreciative that it makes her all the wetter for him. And gods, but she is soaking, his tongue doing things she’d never imagined, sounding out soft and obscene as he sups on her like a man starving. And perhaps he is, really. Whatever he is, Val doesn’t care as long as he never ever stops.

“This,” she pants, writhing against him, grasping ineffectually at the heavy canvas wall of the tent before sinking her fingers deep in the dark curls of his hair. “Oh, this can’t possibly be in your… _oh_ , in your vows.” She can _feel_ him grin against her, but he doesn’t answer, only finds the perfect spot and sucks so that she sees stars dance behind her closed eyelids. More and more she squirms against him, riding his face so shamelessly that even she could blush at the thought of how it must look, his fingers sunk into the swell of flesh at her hips, her knees spread so far on either side of his head that it’s a wonder he hasn’t smothered. Her body shudders out a small peak, and then another, and still he drives her upward, until she’s trembling and mindless and someone else entirely.

“Jon,” she cries, unable to stop the instinctive writhe of her body, “Jon, please, _please_.” She doesn’t think she’s ever begged so before. She’s never given any man such hold over her. But this feels curiously more like power than it does weakness. That’s another part of his magic, she thinks distantly. Another wrinkle to explore.

Her crisis takes her with such strength that she can’t move for long moments, she can’t even breathe. Fingers locked in his hair, she jerks and hitches against him, her head falling back so far that he catches strands of her hair beneath his fingers when he adjusts his grip on her hips, the tugs against her scalp a pale echo of the deep throb of her cunt from his lavish attentions. He sets his tongue still against her, letting her ride out the shuddering waves, straining towards her when she pulls away and moaning with pleasure when she returns, needing more, needing the worshipful bliss of his mouth a bit longer.

He’s still lapping at her gently when she can take no more and squirms away, wriggling down his chest until she can bend and press her forehead to his. Together they struggle for breath, puffs of air from his lips warm and damp on her own, carrying with them her smell, a smell so strong Val could practically think she’s an animal in heat. 

“What would your vows say now?” she manages, sounding utterly wrecked, dismantled by his lips and tongue and desire.

“I think they could only weep in abject gratitude,” he says, sounding equally wrecked. “And then beg for more.”

“More!” Val laughs. “Whatever happened to ‘We can’t,’ then?”

He catches her by the nape, his hand gentle but firm as he makes her look at him. “You happened,” he says. He seems nearly as unnerved by his intensity as she is, but he holds her gaze, not shying or shrinking away from the words, words that seem nearly as powerful as his tongue between her thighs. Val shudders. It’s a dangerous game they play, and she knows she should be careful, but that seems as beyond her reach now as his vows are beyond his.

“Aye,” she agrees. “I suppose we both did.” Then she allows him to tug her down to his chest, her head settling beneath his chin. She allows his steady heartbeat to lull her into sleep. Another weakness. Or another form of power? Val doesn’t know, but there’s time enough to learn such things. All the time in the world.


End file.
